by Kim Baldwin
Since no one had ushered her out, Isabel was content to hang around and observe Kash at work. All the better to get an idea of what might await her on her own photo shoots for the magazine. It had been relatively easy for Isabel to arrange time off. She worked as a freelance cake decorator, splitting her time among three bakeries in Madison, so she had a large measure of control over her schedule. But Gillian couldn’t get more than three weeks off from her job, so she wouldn’t join Isabel for two more days, right before the press conference. They would go directly from there to the airport to begin their adventure, whose itinerary was still a mystery.
That was another reason she was here. She was eager to discover where her dream vacation would take her, and she hoped Kash could give her a preview. Though Kash was obviously too busy for that at the moment, Isabel thought she might get a minute or two with her at the end of the shoot.
So she settled herself on the couch amid the Stepford models and spent the next hour watching them have their pictures taken. Initially, the only sounds in the loft were the clicks of Kash’s cameras and her brief instructions—“Tilt your chin up” or “Turn your body to the right a bit.” Once a model was finished, she was dismissed, and Kash would point to another, always bypassing Isabel.
When Kash began to photograph the last model, Isabel began to realize there was a lot of truth to the tabloid stories. With this one, a willowy redhead, Kash was suddenly much less businesslike. Her instructions became all flirty innuendo—“Give me something sexy,” or “Hike up your dress a little and show me some thigh.” And she seemed to find a multitude of reasons to touch the model—on the arm, the back, the waist—supposedly to reposition her for the next shot, but always with an unmistakable leer on her face.
The model offered Kash her phone number when she finished shooting her, and Kash pocketed it with a satisfied smile.
Such behavior shouldn’t have shocked Isabel. The stories about Kash were too numerous not to have some truth. But Kash’s rather blatant exploitation of her young client repulsed her a bit, and also—and this was what surprised her—she also felt a little jealous at the attention the model was getting.
Kash waited until only the two of them were left before she acknowledged the blonde who seemed like she didn’t belong. The petite woman had a pretty face and a nice body, but it wasn’t a typical runway physique. And her appreciation for her work was less fawning and more insightful than the typical model was capable of. An actress, perhaps.
However, the woman’s lackluster choice of apparel for such an important shoot mystified her—blue jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. White, for God’s sake. I’ll have to change the lighting. And the woman’s complete lack of makeup and apparent disregard for how her hair would photograph puzzled her even more. Amateur. Doesn’t the agency make sure they at least understand the basics?
Kash knew the photos would suffer as a result, and she tried to tell herself she really shouldn’t care because she would get paid regardless. But she was too much the perfectionist, so the blonde’s cavalier disregard for the fundamentals annoyed her. “I deliberately left you for last to give you time to get halfway presentable, but apparently for nothing. I don’t know what look you think you’re going for, but it sure doesn’t work for me.”
The blonde stiffened. “I don’t think you understand—”
Before she could finish, Ramona burst in with shopping bags and a harried expression. “Sorry it took so long. The lines at Lord and Taylor were a bitch.” She glanced over at Isabel as she crossed the loft to hand her purchases to Kash. “I got you a couple of shirts to choose from.”
“I was beginning to wonder.” Ignoring Isabel for the moment, Kash pulled out a black T-shirt and removed the tags before she stripped off her own shirt to change.
Isabel had certainly seen women undress before, having spent a good portion of her life in swimming-pool locker rooms. But for some reason, staring at Kash as she peeled off her button-down shirt and exposed a silk and lace bra that seemed somehow almost too feminine for her softly muscled androgyny vaguely embarrassed her.
“Like I was saying,” Isabel said, getting up from her chair and crossing over to where the other two were standing, “apparently you’ve mistaken—”
She never got this explanation out either, because she didn’t notice the extension cord that ran to one of the massive scoop lights set up for the shoot. She stumbled over it and went flying, triggering a domino effect that caught two other light stands as well and sent all three crashing to the floor in a noisy chaos. Broken glass lay everywhere.
“Christ.” Kash rolled her eyes and hummed a few bars of something under her breath as Ramona hurried to make sure Isabel hadn’t injured herself. “Like I really needed this. Are you deliberately trying to ruin my day?”
Isabel brushed herself off, her face warm from embarrassment, and immediately tried to help clean up the mess. “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry…I didn’t see—”
Kash waved off her apology. “Listen, you’ve self-destructed any chance you had of getting head shots from me today. Be glad I don’t charge you for the damage and see yourself out, okay?”
Isabel frowned and got to her feet. “Sure. No problem. I…I really am sorry.” She left quickly.
“Who was that?” Ramona asked as the door to the reception area banged shut.
“Who knows?” Kash replied. “Never got her name. Find her file and let the Montrose people know they’ll have to reschedule her with someone else.”
“It’s funny, but I don’t remember her…” Ramona crossed to Kash’s desk and picked up the folder of photos the agency had sent over. “Hey, Kash…she’s not here. She evidently wasn’t from the agency.”
“Not from the agency?” Kash asked as she righted the last of the light stands. “Then who the hell was she, and what did she want? She came in with the others and sat here during the whole shoot.”
Ramona shrugged. “No idea.”
Kash glanced over at the door Isabel had disappeared through. “Odd. Well, guess it doesn’t matter, as long as she doesn’t come back.”
Chapter Two
“So, have you met her? What’s she like? Why didn’t you call me?” Gillian asked without preamble when Isabel admitted her into their hotel room. She breezed by, suitcases in tow, without waiting for an answer. “And did she tell you where we’re going?”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask.” Isabel followed her into the spacious suite that Sophisticated Women had booked for them. “And I’m reserving judgment on what she’s like. She was working, and I didn’t exactly make a stellar first impression.”
Gillian dumped her bags just inside the door. “That doesn’t sound good. What happened?”
“I dropped by without calling and she was busy with a shoot, so I waited around for her to finish. She was taking pictures of a bunch of models.” Isabel sat on the couch.
Gillian sank into the cushions beside her. “And?”
“She obviously thought I was one of them or something, and I was trying to explain who I was, finally, when…” Isabel squirmed. “Well, there was an accident. I tripped over a cord or cable or something and knocked over some of her studio lights—the kind on stands that probably cost a small fortune.”
Gillian winced. “Bet that didn’t go over too well.”
“That’s when she told me to leave,” Isabel admitted. “Frankly, I was kind of surprised she let me stay and watch, but like I said…she thought I was one of the models.”
“You sure?” Gillian’s tone was dubious. “I mean, no offense, Izzy, but I sure wouldn’t mistake you for a New York fashion model.”
“No offense taken,” Isabel replied with a smile.
“You’ve got that homespun girl-next-door kind of appeal going on,” Gillian said, tilting her head to appraise her. “Tomboy-cute, not glam-girl.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Say, Iz, this trip is a great opportunity for you to loosen up and live
a little.”
“Not this again.” Isabel rolled her eyes. “I’m not a hermit, Gill. I go out.”
“Once a month, tops,” Gillian said, “when I drag you to a club. And maybe you call dancing a couple of times and letting someone buy you a drink, then going home alone a good time, but I don’t. When’s the last time you let somebody warm your bed? Don’t you miss it?”
“Honestly? Sure. I admit it’s been a while, and I am human. But you know me. I don’t do the casual-sex thing. And I probably won’t meet the right kind of woman for me in a bar anyway. Believe me, when the time is right I’ll meet someone and start going out again. Fate will bring us together, and I’ll recognize it when it happens. At least I hope I will.”
“You’re such a romantic.” Gillian patted her shoulder. “You deserve your happily-ever-after, Iz. Sylvia was such a scum to treat you like she did.”
“We seemed like a good pair.” Isabel shrugged. “We had so much in common.”
“Only on the surface. You may like all the same things, but she’s a shrewd, manipulative snake, and you’re sweetness personified.”
Isabel laughed. “Have I told you lately how much I cherish you?”
“I only have your best interests at heart, my friend. So I’m asking you sincerely to think about what I’ve said. We’re about to experience what might be your best opportunity ever to kick back and have some fun with a beautiful woman or two.” Gillian linked her hands behind her head and relaxed back against the couch. “Or three or four. It would do you good. I hope they send us somewhere with viable nightlife, or maybe a warm beach with some bikini-clad bodies to stare at.”
“I’m hoping we get to see things like the Great Wall of China or Valley of the Kings. Maybe the Tower of London.”
“I can see we’re going to be hoping for different itineraries.” Gillian laughed. “I wonder how much free time we’ll have, and how much you’ll have to spend taking photos for the magazine. You think Kash will be following us around everywhere?”
“No idea.” The pained look on Kash’s face when she’d overturned all the lights flashed back into Isabel’s mind and she cringed. “I guess we’ll find out all that at the press conference.”
“So, you never said…how does she strike you in person? Does she do her pictures justice?” Gillian was watching her intently.
Isabel knew that Gillian was really hoping for a chance to spend a night with Kash. Long before this contest business, Gillian had mentioned a time or two how hot she thought the photographer was. Once they learned they’d be meeting her, they both had scoured the Internet for past stories and interviews about her and had speculated about what she might be like on the trip.
After the hour Isabel had spent watching Kash, she certainly had to agree with Gillian. The woman had obvious sex appeal. And there was a quiet intensity about her when she was working that intrigued Isabel. She had wanted very much to see exactly what Kash was capturing each time she clicked the shutter.
I bet she and Gillian will get together. Gillian has no problem at all with quick and uncomplicated, and it sure seemed as though Kash doesn’t either. When they were out clubbing together, Gillian would often hook up with someone, either in the dark back hallways of the bar or at a stranger’s apartment afterward, so Isabel always drove separately.
The prospect of Gillian and Kash together made her vaguely uneasy, but she didn’t want to dwell too long on why. She told herself she didn’t want Gillian to become one more notch on a celebrity’s belt—but then, who was she to judge? If it’s what she wants, and it clearly is, why should I have a problem with it? I’m her friend, and I should support whatever makes her happy. So that’s what I’ll do.
“You’re going to really like her,” Isabel answered finally. “She’s definitely all that and more. Great body. Really nice features. Well, I didn’t see her eyes—she had shades on. But definitely—like you said—probably can get any woman she wants. More subdued than I expected…and a little abrupt, even before I spoiled her day. Not a happy camper, like maybe something else was going on with her.”
“Perhaps she needs something to improve her mood,” Gillian suggested, her eyes narrowing as though she was already plotting what that might be.
*
“I can’t believe I let you rope me into this,” Kash griped as she set down her camera bag on the floor of Miranda Claridge’s impeccably fashionable office. “It’s asking a lot for me to be away from everything for three weeks. Can’t I just fly over to Paris for a day, and maybe Rome? Call it representative of the trip?”
“No. You know you can’t. You’re part of the grand prize, Kash. Your reputation helped sell it.” Miranda came around from behind her desk and faced Kash, who had on low-cut jeans, boots, and a designer T-shirt. Miranda wore a navy Armani suit. It showed off her legs, still her proudest asset at forty-four. “And like I’ve told you, we really want you to hang with this woman some. Get more than the usual posed Eiffel Tower and pyramid shots.”
Kash studied Miranda’s determined expression. She knew that look, all too well. She had contributed to a half dozen charities and done several benefit shoots because Miranda had used it on her. “No chance I can get out of this, huh?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.” Miranda snatched a flight folder from her desk. “Your tickets and itinerary,” she said. “And the names and contact numbers for the local drivers we’ve hired to help you schlep your stuff and set up as needed. You have my cell. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will,” Kash promised. “So when do I get to meet the contest winner? What’s her name again?”
Miranda glanced at the antique clock on her sideboard. “The press conference starts in twenty minutes. And her name is Isabel Sterling. She’s a cake decorator from Madison, Wisconsin.”
“Cake decorator? You’re kidding. Is that a real job?”
“Of course. In New York and L.A. and a few other places you can make big money if you’re good at it. Especially if you do wedding cakes.”
“If you say so.”
“You could appreciate it better, Kash, if you had ever set foot inside a kitchen.”
They both laughed. Kash lived on take-out, restaurant fare, and the occasional dinner invitation from friends like Miranda and her partner. The women she fucked often asked her over as well, as a way to see her again, but though she loved home-cooked meals she generally discouraged such occasions. They seemed too domestic and always raised expectations for more. She wanted to keep sex simple and uncomplicated.
“So, a cake decorator from Wisconsin. Sounds like a perfect candidate for your makeover. Is she cute? Is she gay?”
Miranda chuckled. “Since when have you cared if someone’s gay as long as she’s cute?”
“True,” Kash acknowledged, grinning back. “So?”
“Cute, yes. Blonde, so she’s your type. Twenty-nine years old. And she is in nice shape.” Miranda raised her eyebrows meaningfully at Kash. “Kind of wholesome-cute, which will be great for the makeover part. Not a lot to do to make her cover-ready. I mean, she’s a great canvas to work on, but there will still be a big difference in the before-and-after pics, which we like. Before—jeans and a T-shirt, no makeup, hair needing a cut. After—well, you know what I mean.”
“Yup. Sounds great,” Kash said. “So she’s cute. What about the gay part?”
Miranda punched her lightly on the arm. “You’re incorrigible. And yes, I think she probably is gay, as a matter of fact. They haven’t said so, but both she and the woman she brought along on the trip seem pretty obvious to me. I met them a little while ago. In fact, though she introduced her as a neighbor and friend, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re really a couple. They seem close. Gillian is the friend’s name.”
Kash glanced at her watch. “I want to check myself in a mirror before the press conference. Meet you down there?”
“Ten minutes, Kash. Don’t leave me hanging.”
“No worries, Miranda.
I’ll be there.”
True to her word, she stepped off the elevator outside the Sophisticated Women conference room with time to spare and came face-to-face with a dozen press and tabloid photographers, many of whom she recognized.
One of them, a paunchy, balding freelancer named Joe Dix, blinded her with a half dozen flashes before she took two steps. Dix was one of the more ruthless of the ambush paparazzi, a growing legion of photographers who spent their days stalking celebrities in hopes of catching them doing something immoral or illegal. His photos of Kash had been splashed on the covers of a number of tabloid rags in the States and abroad. “Hey, Kash. What’s the word?”
“The word?” Kash squinted, trying to dispel the white spots dancing before her eyes. “How about ‘irritating’? ‘Intrusive’? No, wait. How about ‘vermin’—that’s a good one.”
“Funny girl,” Dix retorted as he clicked away. “Like your shit don’t stink. You use your camera to get rich and get laid. What the hell do you think makes you better than me?”
“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Dix. But then, nothing would. Scum is scum, any way you slice it.”
She breezed by the photographers and pushed open the door to the conference room. Twenty or so reporters and a handful of cameramen and women milled around or sat in rows of chairs set up for the press conference, chatting among themselves. Miranda stood at the front, near the podium, talking to an attractive auburn-haired woman who was stylishly dressed in a dove gray silk shirt and charcoal skirt. An easel held a large poster, currently covered by a drape.
As she moved to take her place by Miranda, a few of the reporters tried to intercept her with questions, but she brushed them off with a forced smile.
“There she is.” Miranda smiled approvingly at Kash and introduced her to the woman she was chatting with. “Kash, I’d like you to meet Gillian Menard, our contest winner’s friend, neighbor, and travel companion.”
